


Mixed Messages

by OpalJade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But John and Sherlock still belong together, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, John's POV, Johnlock Roulette, Let's Write Sherlock Challenge, M/M, Mary Morstan theory, Mary has a secret child, Mary is Birdy Edwards, Mary is not necessarily evil, Mary is not what she seems, Missing Scenes, Mixed Messages, Post His Last Vow, Season 3 Spoilers, Sherlock is a true genius, Sherlock's POV, Sorry Mary and the baby don't make it..., Story influenced by ACD The Yellow Face and The Solitary Cyclist, Theory based on ACD canon, Why Sherlock likes Mary...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1245769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalJade/pseuds/OpalJade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has unravelled the entire 'Mary Morstan' conundrum and has finally shared everything with John Watson. (But that doesn't mean there are no more 'mixed messages' between them.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A special thank you to my friend Lariope for the beta and the listening ear. All remaining mistakes are mine. (I have a tendency to add words at the last minute.) Also, this is not Brit-picked. If I've made a mistake, I will gladly change it. :D
> 
>  
> 
> All the plot ideas presented in this fanfic are lifted from a mix and match of ACD canon stories. They have been merged to form a theory (that to me ) explains the polarity in Mary's portrayal, and offer an element of the ' _unexpected_ ' that Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss have professed is coming up in series 4.
> 
> This story was written for 'Let's Write Sherlock' Challenge #10--Missing Scenes. (Chapter 1-'Mind palace Mary' reveals a clue.)
> 
>  

~~~~***~~~~

 

As soon as Janine turned her back and left his hospital room, Sherlock dismissed her from his thoughts, and let his mind re-focus on the problem at hand: How had he missed _who_ and _what_ Mary Morstan was?

 

Obviously, he’d known she was hiding something—lying in order to keep a secret—but he’d never imagined that it was something of this magnitude… something that might put John in danger. 

 

When he had first deduced Mary Morstan, he’d dismissed the word _liar_ almost immediately, as it’d appeared in tandem with _Cat love_ r and _Romantic_. It had not seemed significant in the big picture, and he’d been confident in his initial burst of quick deductions. There had been no warning bells. (Or had he been so desperate for John’s forgiveness that he’d tuned them out?)

 

Why had he been so uncharacteristically slow? Had he been _slow?_

 

That seemed highly unlikely. After two years on the run, his mind was as sharp as ever—an efficient, smooth, super conductor, able to gather data and decipher it even before he even made a conscious effort to do so. He’d relied on his lightning fast deductions to survive—his life had depended on it.

 

Yet, here he was, laying in a hospital bed with an injury far more serious than anything he’d suffered while dismantling Moriarty’s web.

 

Obviously, he’d missed something in his initial assessment of Mary.

 

From her ease with firearms and her ruthlessness, one could easily deduce that Mary was simply a psychopath, a cold-blooded killer who had married John and was prepared to kill Sherlock to prevent John from finding out. But that was erroneous, he was certain, for it explained only one small facet of the puzzle. Also, that would imply that Mycroft was an idiot. Sherlock remembered the thick file his brother had on John and his fiancée. A minor detail like “cold-blooded assassin” would not have escaped Mycroft Holmes.

_I swear, Sherlock, if you take one more step, I will kill you._

 

Interesting. So few people actually meant it when they said those words. He’d taken his chance. It took resolve to kill after all.

 

But she hadn’t killed him, had she?

 

Close. But as far as he knew, this hospital room wasn’t the afterlife. (He hoped.)

 

_I’m sorry, Sherlock. I truly am._

 

Remorse. Mary had been genuinely sorry. ( _He_ certainly could tell the difference.) 

 

He had to _think_. It made no sense whatsoever that Mary would shoot him. He was missing something—he could feel it—just that one piece of evidence to grasp in order to unravel the entire story. 

 

Sherlock turned down the morphine and closed his eyes. He took a careful stroll inside his mind palace to see if he could tease out tidbits of unconsciously stored information.

 

It didn’t take long for Mary to appear in his field of vision. She stood mysteriously in the hallway of his mind palace, dressed the same way as the first time he had met her at The Landmark Hotel. She looked both elegant and enigmatic in her vintage dress and carefully coiffed hair. 

 

_So, Mary Watson, who are you?_

 

Odd, why was he calling her Mary _Watson_? This Mary was not married to John yet. 

 

He walked around her –feeling the tell-tale sign of a Eureka moment. 

 

_Mary_

The word danced on his lips. The name was key, he was certain. He just needed to let it shift and fall into place. 

 

_Mary…_

 

He could feel the answer tingling the edge of his consciousness.

 

Any second. 

 

Any second…

 

NOW

 

Marry Watson!

 

The solution exploded in his mind palace at the same time as Mary’s gunshot. 

 

A myriad of inferences burst through his consciousness—she was obeying a command— _marry_ Watson. (HA. That would explain why Mary's vintage dress had morphed into her wedding gown in his mind palace!) 

 

Marry: a verb, not a noun. 

 

Mary had been purposely placed in John’s path. She’d befriended him while he was vulnerable with grief, when John had needed someone the most—had become a confidant of sorts.

 

 _Oh, he would have needed a confidant…_  
(Sherlock recalled the way in which she’d said it—implying that Sherlock would’ve needed a confidant _too_.)

 

Like an ocean tide, the facts came lapping and crashing into his brain in an onslaught of data. 

 

John had chosen her. (Why _chosen_? That implied that there had been a selection to pick from.)

OH!! There’d been _other_ women put in John’s path—other women with secrets. (The Mayfly man case all over again.)

She’d, of course, come to love John.

Why would Magnussen blackmail Mary Morstan into marrying John?

Sherlock shook his head. No—it wasn’t Magnussen. It didn’t fit.

Charles Augustus Magnussen had been blackmailing her about something else, not the fact that she was a trained killer—this had been news to both he and Magnussen. 

Ha. The telegram at the wedding; obvious. A family secret, then. Something so incriminating that she had decided to confront Magnussen and take matters into her own hands.

Wait. Charles Augustus Magnussen was not even supposed to be in his office that night. He was scheduled to be in a meeting. So why had Mary broken into his office if she knew he would be absent? 

_For the same reason I did? To retrieve love letters from the safe?_

 

But why would Mary even care about Lady Smallwood’s husband’s indiscretion with a fifteen year—

 

Another wave of data connected itself in his mind.

 

Mary, Lady Smallwood, Clair de la Lune perfume. (Coincidence? Not likely.)

Lord Smallwood’s favourite?

Had Mary been that fifteen year old? 

 

A quick mental calculation verified that the age gap loosely fit the timeline for Mary to had been Helen Catherine Driscoll. So, if it were true, had Mary needed to retrieve the letters before they became public? Afraid John would find out as the scandal seemed imminent? Would John hold that against her?

 

Easy enough to verify later, but this wasn’t an urgent tangent to pursue at this point since it offered no explanation as to why Mary would shoot him. Sherlock brushed the idea aside with a swift hand movement in the air.

 

Mary’s actions had hinged on the fact that John was present at the scene. He could only infer that this meant she was protecting John. 

 

Again, Sherlock shook his head in frustration—why had Mary shot him if she was indeed protecting John? Hadn’t Mary come to _Sherlock_ when John had been threatened? Why shoot the person who was more than likely help keep John Watson safe? Why not kill Magnussen? (clearly the better choice as far as he was concerned).

 

Sherlock sighed and felt a ripple of pain cascade all the way down his right side. He resisted increasing the morphine and instead forced himself to retrieve his initial assessment of Mary to see if he could filter out some clues from the long list…

 

There was something else… he was sure of it. 

 

only child  
Guardian  
Bakes own bread  
Disillusioned  
liar  
linguist  
Part-time nurse  
Clever  
Appendix scar  
Lib Dem  
Secret Tattoo

 

Suddenly everything shimmered to the surface. The pieces of the puzzles rearranged themselves and snapped into place. 

 

Sherlock smirked. Ha. He hadn’t missed anything after all.

 

Sherlock’s mistake had been in assuming that John was _everything_ to Mary.

 

Sherlock felt the bile rise in his throat with pure disdain for Magnussen and his cowardly tactics of intimidating those who were different--preying on their secrets. 

 

Mary had been stuck between a rock and a hard place. She’d shot him only to buy herself time to warn him not to tell John. She hadn’t meant to kill him—but had done what needed to be done—Sherlock’s potential death a necessary risk she had been willing to take. 

 

Her words echoed through him. _You don’t tell him, Sherlock. You don’t tell John._

 

Sherlock sighed. Well, that was extremely unlucky for Mary, for he was done with the _‘not telling John_ ’ strategy.

 

What good had it brought him to keep things from John in the past? Two years. He’d ‘not told’ John for _two years._ Yes, yes, he could easily justify it to himself by saying that he’d needed to protect John—needed to keep his cover intact in order to go after Moriarty’s web in complete obscurity. But if he were honest with himself, he’d only needed John to buy the fake suicide in the moment. Had he asked, John would’ve undoubtedly followed anywhere. He would’ve worked with him—just the two of them against the rest of the world. 

 

 _Don’t get involved._ He’d tried. But had two years apart changed anything?

 

No. The only thing it had served to do was destroy John’s trust (and send him into Mary’s arms in the process.) He could not risk losing it again. 

 

Yes, Sherlock would indeed need to tell John that it was his wife who had shot him. 

 

Mary’s mistake had been in assuming that John _wasn’t_ everything to Sherlock. 

 

His entire ‘Mary’ hypothesis was undoubtedly correct, but it still needed to be verified. Mary had to answer a few questions to validate each link in the chain of event he’d just inferred. It had to be done tonight—before the police investigation took place.

 

Sherlock could not afford to make a mistake. These were risky extrapolations (what if was wrong; what if Mary were a wolf in sheep’s clothing?) She had managed to partly fool him… 

 

Precautions were necessary. 

 

Sherlock looked at the clock on the far wall. He had thirty-eight minutes before the nurse (Donna, married, smoker) returned to check on his vitals and two hour before visiting hours resumed and John returned. He needed to have everything planned before then. 

 

In the late afternoon—with a carefully devised plan--he started contacting people. 

 

First he texted Mycroft. (He hated having to ask his brother but he was hardly in any physical shape to go hunting for the relevant private records.)

 

_I appreciate the heads up about crossing paths with a trained killer yet again. Send name, D.O.B., and other pertinent info. SH_

 

Then he texted Molly.

 

_Retrieve projector from the bottom of your closet. (Include extension cord this time.) Send one photo of Mary from the wedding. Purchase one bottle of Claire de la Lune perfume. Place all items in the canvas bag and leave in the recycling bin in exactly one hour. When questioned about my bolt holes, just tell the truth. SH_

 

Billy was next.

 

_At 18h00 pick up canvas bag from the recycling bin at 10B Coxford St. Bring to 221B Baker St. and give the perfume to Mrs Hudson. She will instruct you to bring a chair from the upstairs bedroom and will give you a phone. Bring the bag and wait for me at the corner of Leinster Gardens for further instructions. SH_

 

And last but not least, Mrs Hudson.

 

_Billy Wiggins will arrive at 221B at 18h30. Have him retrieve John’s chair from his bedroom. Place the bottle of Claire de la Lune perfume on the side table by John’s chair. Make sure John takes my call. Have some of your ‘herbal soothers’ available to me. When questioned about my bolt holes, make up something interesting to re-direct Lestrade. SH_

 

Next, getting out of the hospital. 

 

Easy.

 

He just needed to get himself in a wheelchair and merely pretend to be going outside for a cigarette. There was always at least ten patients at all times smoking just off the hospital grounds—some in worse shape than he. He would be able to blend in and disappear from there.

 

He had forty minutes.

 

Sherlock mentally double checked his plan. 

 

What to do about the pain and preventing further injury? More importantly, how to keep John from noticing? (They’d get nowhere if John went into doctor mode and insisted on admitting him back into the hospital). 

 

Well, two things in his favour. John hadn’t slept since Sherlock had been shot, so his judgment would be somewhat foggy. John had been by his side in the hospital—holding his hand, worrying, urging him to pull through, and sharing his own brand of get well soon motivational messages. 

 

_Sherlock, don’t you fucking dare die on me again, you prick._

 

Sherlock’s heart twisted thinking about John. 

 

He hated to hurt John this way. The betrayal would kill him. It would be hard for him to get past the fact that his wife was a trained killer—they might not even get to the other two secrets.

 

Facts were: John was a proud man, and he had trust issues. Upon their return to 221B, Sherlock would need to divert the anger away from Mary and towards himself. (He knew how to push John’s buttons). This way John would not notice the internal bleeding that was sure to occur as the evening progressed. Perhaps, as an extra precaution, he’d better leave his hospital room window open to make it look like he had escaped via that route. (Might help John think he was in better shape than he actually was.)

 

Finally, Sherlock would need to convince John to take Mary on as their client. This would bring composure—give John a sense of control over the situation. Sherlock would solve the puzzle, and John could save the life. (If they could get enough of the facts sorted out before he collapsed). 

 

Undoubtedly, John would stay in 221B for a while, until the dust settled.

 

It was unfortunate that _he’d_ end up in the hospital once more and not get this brief opportunity to share the flat with John Watson again. 

 

A pervasive feeling of longing filled him and made him crave John’s presence. Sherlock closed his eyes and pictured John sitting in his chair in their flat. It had been so long since they’d sat across each other in easy companionship--so long since they’d solved a regular case together. Sherlock missed John’s flashing smile, his admiring eyes, and his endless accolades. (He doubted he’d be privy to any of those this evening despite the fact that he’d successfully strung a chain of brilliant deductions together from seemingly irrelevant clues.)

 

But none of this mattered at the moment--Sherlock could find himself a spot in the nooks and crannies of John Watson's life once this was all sorted out. For tonight, the best he could hope for, was for John to trust him and agree to handle the situation his way. 

 

~~~****~~~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and reviewing! 
> 
> 1) If you happen to re-watch _His Last Vow_ you might notice Sherlock's eureka moment in his mind palace when he figures out that it's _**marry Watson**_ and not Mary Watson. He whispers it and then the gunshot happens and Mary is in a wedding dress. 
> 
> 2) Clair-de-la-Lune perfume: The possibility of Mary being Helen Catherine Driscoll is not central to this story, but I threw it in there because I thought it was too much of a coincidence that 'Mary' and Lady Smallwood happened to use the same perfume (especially since in TSoT Sherlock used perfume brands as a possible variable to uncover the identity of the "Mayfly' man.)
> 
> 3) Link to ACD Canon: The letters.  
> There is a lovely ACD canon story that has a lot of parallels with this plot. In _The Adventures of the Second Stain_ , a newly married woman begs Holmes to keep her secret from her husband. She claims that _“It would break him. For Heaven’s sake don’t tell him! There is no woman in London who loves her husband as I do, and yet if he knew how I have acted—how I have been compelled to act—he would never forgive me.”_
> 
> And what was her secret?  
>  _It was a letter of mine, Mr Holmes, an indiscreet letter written way before my marriage—a foolish letter, a letter of an impulsive, loving girl._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my eternal gratitude to Lariope for the alpha and the beta. Many thanks also to Patisfannish for looking this over and offering useful suggestions. And last but not least, a special thank you to Sherlockfan for her insightful comments and suggestions.
> 
> Written for ‘Let’s Write Sherlock’ Challenge #10- Missing Scenes. (Chapter 2- After the ‘domestic’.) 
> 
>  

~~~***~~~

 

John sat in the deserted NY Pizza diner, gripping his coffee cup tightly, and thinking about how his fucking life had flipped sideways on him once again. 

 

Yeah, hard to believe that less than a month ago his two biggest problems had been deciding if he needed to find a new flat with a baby on the way and figuring out how to lose the extra seven pounds he’d gained on his honeymoon… 

 

And now?

 

Well, now he was estranged from his wife of three months (though technically, he supposed they weren’t even married since she’d used a false identity.) and, honestly, he couldn’t even bring himself to think of the baby.

 

Had it been just a month since he’d found out that his funny, easy-going Mary was actually a cold blooded killer? That _she’d_ been the one to _shoot_ Sherlock?

 

John closed his eyes and swallowed the bile rising up in throat at the image of Sherlock with a bullet hole in his chest. 

 

Yes, his best friend had survived… but it had been so goddamn close! And then Sherlock had ended up in the hospital _again…_

 

John had been feeling guilty thinking about how he had not recognized the signs—or recognized them but assumed Sherlock was faking. _Not funny, not this time._ John had realized too late that the shallow breathing and the clipped words had not been a bloody trick. He should’ve noticed Sherlock’s colouring—the damn fool, escaping from the hospital so soon after nearly dying.

 

John had found his way back to Baker Street just like a ship lost at sea. A stupid metaphor, John knew, but the sentiment behind it was true. He’d let his instincts take over and he’d gone back to the only place that felt right, where he knew he was in control again. A place where he felt like himself. There, he’d gone on automatic mode, taking charge of Sherlock’s care at the hospital while working long hours at the surgery. He had completely shunted thoughts of Mary’s betrayal and was bitterly grateful that she no longer worked in his office. (A conflict of interest, they’d decided soon after their engagement, and Mary had found employment elsewhere.) 

 

John had spent the month commuting between Baker Street and the hospital while Sherlock was in the ICU and he’d been unable and unwilling to even contemplate talking to “Mary”—or whatever her name was. 

 

See, it’d been awfully hard to witness (and manage, truth be told) poor Sherlock stuck in the damn hospital again like a caged animal, being poked and prodded daily by a steady stream of health workers, enduring hours of pain and physiotherapy… all because of him— _because of Mary._

 

John took a deep breath followed by a long swig of coffee as if he were slugging water after a marathon. It tasted warm, bitter, and soothing all at the same time. Why was he even consuming caffeine at this time of night? 

 

He supposed it was better than the alternative—getting pissfaced drunk. 

 

John sighed and stared at the brown liquid still swirling in the cup, wondering what he even doing in this strange pizzeria.

 

Earlier during the day, he’d called the hospital to see how Sherlock was doing, only to find out that he’d been discharged (officially this time), and John had bolted out of 221B as if the flat were leaking toxic fumes. 

 

John wasn’t quite sure why he’d left so quickly. He was truly glad to have Sherlock home, and there was nothing he’d like better to do than to put Sherlock in his pyjamas, wrap him in one of his expensive bathrobes, and order him to stay on the sofa for the next seven months. 

 

John was done with secret plans, breaking in, and gun shots… see, he hadn’t missed danger _that_ much.

 

Suddenly, as if he’d appeared from nowhere, John sensed Sherlock staring at him through the panoramic window of the restaurant. 

 

So, his genius of a best friend had managed to track him down to this odd pizza place. 

 

Not surprising. Not really. 

 

John supposed that was the reason he’d left the flat in a hurry… because he realized he and Sherlock needed to talk, and John wasn’t ready—didn’t know if he could handle Sherlock and “his methods” right now. 

 

Christ, he knew Sherlock would glide in and present him with facts and data, treating the entire thing as the latest case, and the whole notion made John feel a shuddery combination of apprehension and nausea. Maybe his anger had fuelled the confrontation in 221B with Mary and as a result he’d been able to play detective then, but now he didn’t exactly feel like sitting down with Sherlock and taking down notes about the facts of the ‘case’. It was all a little too much when your client was both an assassin and your pregnant wife. 

 

_Magnussen is all that matters now. You can trust Mary._

 

Yeah, mixed messages, alright.

 

Jesus, _Jesus._ How was he supposed to trust Mary when she’d been the one who had put a bullet in Sherlock? Just blindly forget about it without further explanation? And truth be told, it was also hard to trust the person who had let you grieve for two years…

John supposed he couldn’t avoid Sherlock any longer and lifted his head and made eye contact to let him know he knew Sherlock was there. Sherlock had a solemn look about him, and John wondered if that was because of how disgruntled and _pathetic_ he must look sitting there by himself in this damn place. 

 

Sherlock entered the side door and walked purposely towards him. “May I join you?” he asked in a tone that didn’t sound like it was a question at all.

 

John’s hand was shaking so he stuffed it in his pocket. “Yeah, sit down. Order a coffee. It’s not bad for a pizza place.”

 

A long silence settled over them. 

 

There was so much John wanted to say to Sherlock, things like: ‘I’m so relieved you’re okay,’ or ‘Thanks for not keeping me in the dark about Mary,’ but at the same time he wanted to shout at him, ‘Why did you put your life in danger again, you idiot?’

 

But mostly John wanted to tell him, ‘Don’t ever, _ever_ imply that I asked for any of this.’

 

He supposed that was the real reason he’d left Baker St. If he and Sherlock were to have a heart to heart talk, he needed to get this out of the way first. He needed to say his piece. It drove him crazy that Sherlock seemed to be siding with his assassin of a wife on this. 

 

He looked directly at Sherlock, who was still standing next to him, waiting patiently as if he’d deduced what John needed to do before they discussed Mary. 

 

“Sherlock, I might be attracted to danger, but that doesn’t mean I’m addicted to betrayal. Because I’m fucking not, alright,” John said, pointing a finger towards Sherlock’s chest. “The two people I cared about most in the world have managed to royally fuck me up,” John exhaled loudly and added, “I don’t remember auditioning for the John Watson horror show.”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Done with your pity party?” he said, as if John had merely been complaining about coagulated blood floating in their tea pot.

 

John sighed. “God, you can be such an arse sometimes, you know that?”

 

Sherlock smiled slightly. “Just offering some normalcy.” 

 

“Generous of you.”

 

“I thought so.”

 

John watched Sherlock as he sat down next to him. His movements seemed fluid, but John could tell that he was still in a bit of pain. John waved the waitress over and ordered a coffee for Sherlock. When she returned with the steaming cup, John automatically took it from her, added two sugars, mixed it with a spoon, and pushed it towards Sherlock. He supposed that was _his_ way of inserting normalcy into the situation.

 

“How are you?” John asked.

 

“I don’t know why you’re asking. You’ve already noted the restricted movements on my left and deduced that I was in some discomfort, but my colouring told you I was fine otherwise.”

 

“Right.” He supposed he preferred Sherlock’s directness to his pity. “Okay, what do you want then?” John asked, despite already knowing the answer.

 

“This isn’t a matter of want, John. We have a case to finish.”

 

“There really is no case. She fucking shot you. You almost died. The end,” John whispered in short clipped sentences.

 

“I repeat: We trust Mary. Remember, she saved my life.”

 

John rolled his eyes. “You’re forgetting the very significant fact that your life would not have _needed_ saving had she not shot you…”

 

Sherlock waved his hand in the air as if this were, in fact, the most trivial point of this entire mess. “She had no choice but to immobilize me; then she saved my life.”

 

John shook his head in disbelief. Why was Sherlock so damn determined to protect Mary? “I don’t exactly buy that she saved your life. From my point of view, your heart stopped, and you were clinically dead for over two minutes. I think if this were to go to court, a jury would agree that this was attempted murder.” 

 

Sherlock pulled that face that seemed to imply he thought John was being particularly dense. “John, if Mary wanted me dead, she had plenty of opportunities to kill me. Shall I enumerate them for you? First, she could’ve shot me in the face, heart, neck. Second, she could’ve killed me the night she snuck into my hospital room to threaten me to keep quiet, third…” 

 

“Okay, stop. I don’t exactly feel like listening to all the different ways my bloody wife could’ve finished you off.”

 

“I’m just trying to illustrate how illogical you’re being. You’ve witnessed Mary’s ability with a firearm… surely, as a doctor and a soldier, you can determine on your own how precise her shot through that coin was. I know you have an above average reasoning centre in your brain—I’ve seen you use it occasionally.” 

 

Oh, John could really do without the taunting at this point. “You are really annoying me.”

 

Sherlock ignored him and continued talking as if John had just asked for a summary of events. “Let’s stick to current facts, shall we? So, you’ve been staying in 221B, which is perfectly fine by the way. You haven’t seen Mary since I was taken by ambulance from Baker St, and you’ve removed your wedding ring. You’ve visited me at the hospital religiously but stopped once you knew I was out of danger. You’ve been feeling sorry for yourself and trying hard not to think of the baby.” Sherlock paused, then added, “Anything I’ve missed?”

 

“Yeah. You’re bloody annoying me.” Because, of course, his genius best friend was right. John was trying to forget about the baby. All he wanted was for things to go back to pre-hiatus normal. To move back in with Sherlock, to solve regular cases together… not listen to Sherlock side with _Mary._

 

“Ha, yes, and I annoy you. _Now_ can we get on with the case?”

 

“There is no bloody case! She nearly killed you and was ready to do it again in your bolt hole had you not plastered her face on the front of the building. I was there. I remember.” 

 

“John, you accepted Mary as our client. You need to listen to logic--you’re looking at the result, when really you should be asking _why_. View this as a case.”

 

“Fine. Shall I blog about it? What clever title should I name this one? The Adventures of the Psychopath Nurse? The Flatmate with a Hole in his Chest? My Wife is an Ex-Murderer?” 

 

“Hmm, and I’m the drama queen. All done?”

 

“As a matter of fact, no. This is all _your_ fault you know,” John paused, fighting for composure. Yes, he’d forgiven Sherlock for his deception, but the entire thing still felt like a fragile wound and he could feel the sutures coming apart. “If you hadn’t left me behind for two Goddamn years—I mean, if you’d bloody included me— _‘just the two of us against the rest of the world… ’_ I wouldn’t have ended up married to a trained killer. I would’ve followed you. No questions asked.”

 

There, he’d said it. He didn’t even know that this was something else he needed to get off his chest. By the way the words had come out, it had sounded like some sort of grand admission, but he didn’t care. It was the truth—he wouldn’t have needed companionship from someone like Mary had Sherlock not gutted him and left his carcass there for easy picking.

 

Sherlock looked at him with an intense expression. “I know, John,” he said. His tone was soft and conciliatory, and again John wished that they could rewind time and go back to when things were simpler between them.

 

They looked at each other in silent communication, and from the steadiness of Sherlock’s gaze, the way he looked vulnerable, _open,_ John could tell Sherlock was genuinely sorry about the situation. His marvel of a best friend wasn’t viewing this as a game—a battle of wits of sorts with Mary. _‘We’re in this together’, ‘I’ve included you as soon as I could’,_ Sherlock’s eyes seemed to convey.

 

And finally, John nodded once in understanding. _Yes, together._

 

And just like that, the unique easiness between them was back.

 

“Well, you have to pay for my therapy bills then.” John said half-joking. “Sherlock—I’m glad you’re okay. I wouldn’t have been able to lose you again, you dickhead,” he added as he squeezed Sherlock’s forearm firmly, making coffee spill down the side of Sherlock’s cup.

 

“John, do you trust me?”

 

“Not one little bit,” John replied, and Sherlock smiled. 

 

“So, what have you got?” John asked. 

 

“You haven’t looked at the memory stick, then?”

 

“No—I couldn’t.” 

 

“May I?”

 

John didn’t need to think about it. “Yes,” he replied quickly, demonstrating his absolute trust in Sherlock despite his earlier words. 

 

John took it out of the inside pocket and dropped it in Sherlock’s palm. It felt like handing Sherlock a boulder he hadn’t realized he was carrying around. He knew Sherlock would tell him if there was something crucial he needed to know. Right now, he couldn’t trust himself to look at the fucking thing. See, he had to think of the baby. And he knew if he looked at it, there was no chance for forgiveness—it would make him hate Mary more, for there was nothing, _nothing,_ that could ever justify shooting Sherlock.

 

Sherlock took the flashdrive between his fingers and inspected it closely, as if he could glean everything about Mary from the kind of key it was and the shape of the letters inscribed on it.

 

“Hmm, I think this will show that Mary was a highly trained double agent and a code breaker, also known as a linguist in the intelligence world. My guess is she infiltrated a terrorist gang of sorts and became a prominent member before taking them down,” said Sherlock in a tone that was both full of glee and admiration.

 

“Do you think these are even her initials?” asked John, sadly. “She hesitated before saying they were.”

 

“Yes, she did. Good catch,” said Sherlock. “But I think they are simply her initials. One set is clearly her alias and the second set might even be her real ones. Clever enough—I’m sure the contents are encoded, though. However, I would’ve also encrypted the initials in a playfair code first, or even a—”

 

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence as if he’d just realized that his voice sounded a tad too enthusiastic considering the circumstances. “John, about Mary... I don’t know how to present my ideas without—”

 

Again, John put his hand firmly on Sherlock’s forearm to interrupt him. “It’s okay, Sherlock. Just go ahead and do your thing. Deduce away.” John felt like he was sitting in the dentist’s chair without anesthetic and figured it made no difference if Sherlock used tact or not. _The drill drills on regardless._

 

John braced himself. “So, you think you know what the hell is going on?” 

 

“Just a theory for now. We still have to talk to Mary.”

 

“And you maintain we should trust her?” John asked carefully. 

 

“Yes. As I said, it is still in the hypothesis stage. But I shall be surprised if it doesn’t turn out to be correct: Mary was forced to marry you—and stay married—in order to protect someone extremely important to her.”

 

John absorbed Sherlock’s first premise like a punch low in the gut. _Forced to marry me?_

 

It sounded far-fetched, but John knew Sherlock’s methods. He wouldn’t be spewing off such non-sense if he at least didn’t have a valid reason for it. 

 

John took a deep breath. _View this as you would view any other case._

 

How many times had Sherlock proclaimed something completely outrageous and unlikely, only to be proven correct in the end? So, Sherlock believed Marry had been _forced_ to marry him. 

 

_Well, there you go, more proof that my bloody marriage is a sham._

 

John knew his role. Ask a question, let Sherlock explain how he’d connected the dots. He swallowed. “Why do you think so?”

 

“How else can we explain why she shot me?”

 

John gave an incredulous laugh. “How the hell does that explain anything? I don’t see the connection.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Of course, you wouldn’t--you’ve only been given the first link and the final clasp. There’s no need to feel stupid.” 

 

“Thanks. You’re doing wonders for my ego tonight. Okay, talk me through it, then.”

 

“The links, as I see them, go something like this: Mary was purposely placed in your path. She wasn’t the only one, by the way, and if you can somehow think back, you’ll recall that there were suddenly many other women trying to befriend you--but she was the one you chose. Once you chose her, she had to marry you—and stay married.” John cringed, and Sherlock held up his hand and continued, “Oh, don’t make that face, and don’t interrupt me… It turned out fine, you love her and she loves you and romance blossomed regardless of how you met. Anyway, as I was saying before you interrupted me with that wounded puppy look… ”

 

“I don’t do wounded puppy—that one’s yours.”

 

Sherlock looked up briefly, a slight dimple denting his cheek. “True, you’re more the wounded pit bull… as my nose can attest.”

 

“Very funny,” John finished his coffee. “Alright, carry on. You were delicately saying that my wife was forced to marry me…”

 

“Yes. Mary was blackmailed into marrying you—but don’t worry, it wasn’t a chore for her. She genuinely liked you right off the bat.”

 

“ _Not a chore?_ That’s lovely. I feel all warm and fuzzy now.” John shook his head, “Okay, tell me, how you came up with that idea? If I remember correctly, I’m the one who proposed—it’s not like it was a shotgun wedding.”

 

“Well, eventually, there _was_ a gunshot.” 

 

“Sherlock, I’m nowhere near ready to joke about this, okay?”

 

“Couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”

 

John wouldn’t admit it out loud, but exchanging banter with Sherlock was helping. It felt good—normal. Sherlock wasn’t pitying him, and oddly enough, seeing the smiles tugging at Sherlock’s lips made him feel lighter, happy—like he could grind this out somehow if he just continued working with his best friend like they always had. “Right, so back to how you figured out the ‘marry’ part.”

 

“Well, apart from the fact that it makes perfect sense, I had an epiphany. Remember when I had the eureka moment about the terrorist threat posed by Moran? _’Underground’_ versus ‘underground’ network… Same type of solution— _Marry_ versus Mary. You see?”

 

Sherlock was animated and talking fast, his hands in constant motion as if propelled by the multitude thoughts spinning in his mind. John was so grateful to have the bloody wanker alive and well and sitting right next to him. It was too bad the content of what he was saying was so damn outrageous, it couldn’t possibly be true. 

 

John crossed his arms over his chest. “Well there is one big plot hole in your story, Sherlock. If Mary was forced to marry me under duress, why would she suddenly love me so much that she would put a bullet in my best friend to keep me from leaving her? What I mean is, I don’t fucking get how she can claim to love me and shoot you in the same breath.”

 

“Ha. Mary never said she shot me because she _loved_ you. She said she shot me because she didn’t want to _lose_ you. See your mistake? Common faulty inductive reasoning… You jumped to a conclusion based on an assumption instead of a workable premise. Not wanting to lose someone doesn’t necessarily mean love. ”

 

“So now you’re saying that she doesn’t love me?”

 

Sherlock exhaled loudly. “No, isn’t it obvious? I’m saying that she had another reason for being willing to do anything to keep you.”

 

“I’m not sure I follow you…”

 

“This is simple classical reasoning; If A=B and B=C, then A=C… whereby the invisible thread, B, is hidden as the condition.” 

 

 _Oh, great,_ John thought. Now he was going to get a philosophy lesson in logics. 

 

“A, in this case, means she would do anything—like shooting me—and C means not losing you. You have wrongly assumed that the unsaid B was love. See, you implied that she is obsessively attached to you and would go to any length to keep you, but this doesn’t fit with the romantic love that Mary has exhibited towards you thus far. I am no expert, John, but this kind of selfishness is not love, therefore it can only be inferred that Mary had a different reason for doing what she did.”

 

John buried his head in his hands. “I think I need to switch from caffeine to alcohol.”

 

Sherlock ignored him and simply continued with his explanation. “I believe that the hidden condition, B, is the protection of someone, not obsessive possession. If she loses your trust, then she loses you. If she loses you, she loses protection of person X. Therefore she would do anything in order not to lose your trust in order to insure the safety of X.”

 

“Who the hell is X?!”

 

“For now, the identity of X doesn’t matter.”

 

“Matters to me if person X is the father of the baby!” exclaimed John, exasperated. This was the first time he’d admitted his fear out loud—the fear that the baby wasn’t even his. 

 

“No—it doesn’t follow that X should be another man. Person X is a relation—a parent or a sibling—but, my guess is, it’s probably a child.” Sherlock waved the waitress over, preventing John from butting in. Sherlock ordered a glass of red wine and continued talking as soon he placed his order. “So working through my chain of reasoning, in order to protect X, Mary agreed to marry you and every decisions she has made hinges on staying married to you at all costs in order to protect person X. This is the invisible connecting thread, John, and in this light, everything that happened makes more sense, don’t you think?”

 

John thought back to what Mary had said, _‘It would break him, and I would lose him forever. Please understand, there is nothing I wouldn’t do to stop that from happening.’_ Well perhaps those words _did_ make more sense in that context! Mary had never really been creepily possessive like that. At all. It was one thing he’d liked about her. They had been good pals, as well as husband and wife, dammit, Mary had even accepted Sherlock’s importance in his life, unlike all his past girlfriends. Mary genuinely liked Sherlock and had never displayed jealously about John going with Sherlock for cases, in fact she encouraged it. If she was possessive, as her words had indicated, she would have resented it, discouraged it… 

 

Sherlock paused in his speech when the waitress returned with the wine. Sherlock took a quick sniff, held out the glass to John, and continued with his reasoning in an earnest (if not slightly pleased-with-himself) tone, “And this is why we must trust Mary. She is cornered. I will continue to solve the puzzle and—as per our usual modus operandi—you, my dear John, will save the life.” 

 

“You believe X’s life is in danger?”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes thoughtfully for a second. “Not anymore.”

 

“Then whose life am I saving?”

 

Sherlock turned and looked at him directly in the eyes. “Mary’s, and by proxy, your child’s. The USB stick will undoubtedly confirm this.”

 

John shook his head. Really, no matter what was on that stick, it seemed unlikely that Mary had another child hidden away somewhere and that she’d been somehow coerced into marrying him! 

 

 _Sherlock occasionally makes mistakes too,_ mused John. 

 

But John had been blown away by Sherlock’s amazing intellect so many times before and wondered what the chances were that Sherlock was wrong about _everything?_

 

_Pretty damn slim._

 

John knew that Sherlock always preferred to give his results in his own time—complete rather than in stages—unlike he had just done for John right now. At the thought, John was filled with a warmth that reminded him of being picked first by the team captain in gym class. John was suddenly grateful and awed that Sherlock had shared what he had so far with him. Seriously, Sherlock could’ve easily kept everything to himself—including who had shot him. It would not have been the first time he’d been kept in the dark…

 

John found that he couldn’t possibly dismiss his friend’s wild hypothesis, but he found there was something that was bothering him in all of this. 

 

“Thanks for sharing what you have so far, Sherlock. I know you despise theorizing in advance of all the facts. But that being said, I think there’s a radical flaw in your theory; _Why_ would anyone force anyone to marry _me?_

 

Sherlock hesitated, the satisfied expression disappearing from his face. “Yes, well, er—I’m still working on that part. But you need to work on your self-esteem, John. Many individuals would consider it a _coup de force_ to marry an attractive, kind, brave, doctor _and_ sol--”

 

“Stop, Sherlock. I’m not in the mood for your false flattery. The way I see it, the only way someone would force nuptials would be somehow in relation to you. But why would my marrying someone affect you?”

 

Sherlock made a face like someone had just blinded him with a camera flash and said quickly, “Irrelevant for now. What is important at the moment is for you to move back home.”

 

“But I’m already in Baker Street! You deduced that earlier.”

 

“I meant your _other_ home—the one with Mary. Where your bills get sent to.”

 

John felt a blush creep up his neck at the blunder. Yes, he still thought of 221B as his home. Well, not surprising with everything that had happened (though if he were honest with himself, even before Mary’s betrayal he’d always felt more at home in Baker St… )

 

“As much as I enjoy your company, it is crucial that you return to your wife and find it in yourself to forgive her… and collect data.”

 

John should probably do as Sherlock had suggested and go back to the Kensington flat to see if he could catch any signs that what Sherlock had hypothesized was remotely plausible. That being said, he still couldn’t picture himself having a heart to heart with Mary, but he could certainly begin collecting data to see if any of it fit with what he’d heard tonight. But honestly, he wasn’t sure if he could bring himself to even look at her, let alone decipher this mess. Perhaps he could wait until tomorrow to move out?

 

“Yes. Return to Baker Street for tonight if you must,” said Sherlock, correctly interpreting John’s brief moment of hesitation. “I’ll probably won’t see you until morning, if that—I have to consult with Mycroft before I go home.”

 

John felt an odd feeling of disappointment pervasively settle within. He’d been living in his old flat for weeks now and even though he’d run away this afternoon, it didn’t mean he had not been counting down the days until Sherlock would be home again. Jesus, he’d been looking forward to at least spending one night hanging out with Sherlock but now it looked like he wasn’t even going to get that. He’d missed him so much! 

 

“Alright, I’ll see you in the morning.” John paused, looking for the right words and only part of what he wanted to say to Sherlock came out. “Sherlock, please be careful.” _Losing you again would devastate me more than any secret Mary might have._

 

Sherlock looked down at his hands, and John thought he actually looked _sad._ It was so rare to see that expression on his face.

 

“I’ll text if anything significant comes up.”

 

“Thanks,” John replied, and before he knew what he was doing, he was squeezing Sherlock’s forearm _again._ “I’m very happy you’re okay, sorry I missed the signs--”

 

“Don’t apologize, John. I had planned it so you wouldn’t.”

 

“Okay, okay, but still…”

 

“Good night, John.”

 

“Alright, goodnight.”

 

John left Sherlock there, drinking his coffee alone like John himself had been doing earlier. Sherlock had that look on his face—like he was in this giant maze and needed to get them out—and seeing him like this, focused and brilliant, John could only wonder how Mary, knowing full well what Sherlock meant to him, could ever have risked Sherlock’s life.

 

He doubted he’d ever be able to forgive her.

 

~~~***~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing! 
> 
> 1) As I mentioned before, all plot elements are lifted from a mix and match of ACD canon stories. They are all listed at the end of chapter 3 in order to avoid spoilers for my story. :D
> 
> 2) Regarding John's 'anger': I think that it's obvious that John has a tiny volcano brewing up a storm in HLV. I firmly believe that the anger is not directed towards Sherlock per se, but towards the apparent close connection between Sherlock and Mary. I tried to the best of my ability to show that in my writing. I hope it was layered enough that you saw right through John's emotions even though he seems to be pissed at Sherlock at the beginning of the chapter. 
> 
> 3) I am convinced that Mary was forced to marry John and that her real BIG secret is that she has a secret child (exactly like in ACD's _The Yellow Face_ ) That's what Magnussen was blackmailing her about at the wedding in TSoT. He didn't even know she was an "assassin" until HLV. (Notice how CAM goes home after and digs out all the information he has on "the bad girl"? This is all news to him. Juicy news, even more leverage!)) The question is, why is Mary so desperate to hide this secret child? 
> 
>  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Massive thank you to Lariope for the beta and the listening ear. Thanks also to Sherlockfan for her insightful suggestions and for helping me make this chapter better.  
> Written for ‘Let’s Write Sherlock’ challenge #10-Missing Scene (or what happened before Christmas day).  
> 

~~~***~~~

 

Sherlock heard the tell-tale signs of John coming up the stairs two by two and hurried to place the bicycle helmet on John’s side table next to his chair. He hadn’t thought to buy a gift bag and, really, John should be happy he’d even thought to purchase him a gift in the first place. Did it really need to be hidden from sight for fourteen seconds if John wasn’t going to bother guessing what it was?—people rarely did. 

It was Christmas Eve and Sherlock had asked John to Baker Street in order to invite him (and Mary, and his gun) to the family home for Christmas.

As far as he knew John hadn’t even begun to forgive Mary therefore Sherlock was prepared for resistance and knew it would take a significant amount of persuasion to get John to agree (John could be so stubborn at the most inconvenient times!) Sherlock was also prepared to present him with his most logical arguments, and if need be, engineer a quick plan to trick him into coming.

What Sherlock was _not_ prepared for was his reaction to the sight of John Watson (‘human error’ _par excellence_ ) when he opened the door. His stomach seemed to swirl and drop, leaving a sort of hollow feeling of yearning in its wake. John looked relaxed and rested, and it had been _so long_ since he’d had a grinning John Watson standing in front of him. 

“Hullo Sherlock,” said John amiably. “You look good.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks warm despite knowing John was using the word improperly. He looked _well,_ not good. 

“Hi,” was all he could manage to reply. He certainly had a lot to do if all of his persuading arguments regarding Christmas dinner were going to come out one word at a time.

John scanned him from head to toe. “You look well too,” he added in a friendly, amused way. Sherlock could only nod, unsure if John was teasing him or not. 

John walked in and put two silver parcels of different sizes on their work table. “Where is Mrs Hudson? I thought I would drop this off to her for Christmas but there was no answer at the door.”

“Her sister’s.” There, he’d doubled his word output. And again Sherlock reflected on the embarrassing fact that he just wasn't prepared for a lighthearted John Watson.

John grinned. “The holidays never put you in a talkative mood, do they?” John said as he removed his coat and hung it up in his usual spot.

Sherlock could only stare at John’s new clothes, feeling his already feeble word count free falling to zero. John was handsome in his blue shirt, pressed indigo trousers, and monochromatic blue belt circling his trim waist. The shirt hung on him perfectly, and for once John had the good sense not to button it all the way up to his Adam’s apple. The cut and material of the shirt sculpted his chest and formed an attractive V at the front, and Sherlock could not take his eyes off John’s sternum.

John looked down at his feet self-consciously. 

Oh, he was openly staring at John. _Idiot,_ he berated himself. 

“New shirt,” Sherlock offered as an explanation. 

“Harry bought it for me last Christmas. She thought it would suit me,” John said and then shrugged before continuing,“I had lunch with her today so I thought I’d wear it.”

“Harry was right.”

John shook his head vehemently and his cheeks coloured slightly. “It’s a lot of blue.”

“No. You’re not too blue,” Sherlock said and turned away quickly.

It was a ridiculous conversation. It was probably the most idiotic thing he’d ever said to John Watson— _you’re not too blue._ They had pressing matters to deal with and now was not the time to lose his common sense and discuss different hues of fabric (and fall a little deeper into this abyss of emotions John Watson constantly pulled him into.) 

“I guess this conversation would make more sense if I was a smurf, eh?” 

Sherlock frowned for a moment, the reference slipping him by, and confusion filled him (a most undesirable state) when he realized he had lost control of the situation.

 _Focus!_ He gave himself a mental shake and forced himself to detach from the image of John’s prize smile, his honey coloured hair, and his amused blue eyes. He’d retrieve the image later. 

Sherlock focused on what had brought John here in the first place. “You have two questions,” Sherlock stated in order to re-direct the conversation. 

John sighed softly, apparently not quite ready to discuss the Mary situation. “Actually, I have a lot more than two.”

“Hmm, no. Only two. It might seem like more to you but that’s because you don’t know how to be succinct. Your questions, in fact, boil down to two distinct categories which can be summarized as follows 1) ‘What was on the A.G.R.A flash drive?’ and 2) ‘Did I figure out why anyone would force Mary to marry you?’”

John looked to the ceiling, thinking, and then smiled slightly. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

“Without a doubt,” Sherlock said walking to his work table. He turned on his laptop. “Let me answer your second question first since I have the relevant information right here. Come. Sit.”

John half-laughed. “I guess I _do_ have a commanding officer after all,” he said in a tone that was meant to sound exasperated but was predominantly fond. “Shall I go prepare you some tea first, _Sir?”_

Sherlock huffed as if he were annoyed, “Yes, and why don’t you crochet some doilies for us while you’re at it. It’s not as if we have life and death matters to discuss.” John just laughed as he went into the kitchen to fill the kettle and get tea ready for them. “Don’t be an arse,” John said affectionately and Sherlock ignored the flutter in his gut and proceeded to bring a chair next to him so John could see the computer screen comfortably.

John put the tea cups down on the desk and leaned over to look at the page that Sherlock had pulled on his laptop: _The Poisoned Giant._ “Hey, that’s my blog…”

“Yes. It’s certainly not the biography of the latest Pulitzer prize winner.” 

John chuckled. “You’re in fine form today.”

He wasn’t. What he was was pathetic, trying to make John smile because he’d missed seeing John happy.

“Let’s get to work, shall we?” he said, shunting his desire for another round of banter with John. “Remember the details of this particular case? I believe the initial emails you received, with only the photo of a single pearl had more significance than we originally thought.” 

John sat down next to Sherlock, his eyes attentively glued to the computer screen.

“Wasn’t it just to engage us in the case?”

“At the time I thought so, but upon looking back, I’ve realized two things: the photos of these particular pearls are of an extremely rare variety and value and that they weren’t sent to your blog or my website. They were sent to you privately—like a secret message of sorts that was misinterpreted.”

“Wait—are you admitting to having made a mistake?”

“I’m not always the perfect, bright, multi-faceted diamond you think I am.”

John did a funny combination of rolling his eyes and huffing at the same time. “I’ve never compared you to a diamond!”

“Only because you didn’t think of it. You’ve implied it often enough, though.”

John laughed, shaking his head to the ceiling. “You’re unbelievable.”

Sherlock smiled back. He really needed to stop indulging himself like that. “It wasn’t really a mistake, John. The case was merely put on the back burner because I had _your_ wedding to plan.”

At the mention of the wedding, John sobered up, and the amused twinkle disappeared from his eyes just as Sherlock had predicted. He watched John re-read his blog entry before turning to him. “You know, your entire hypothesis still seems farfetched to me…. but I’ll play along. You think this case offers a hint as to why someone would force Mary to marry me?”

“The promise of wealth is always a motive in forced nuptials.”

“Maybe in Victorian England…”

“Don’t be naïve. It still happens now. Money will always be a motive no matter what century the human race is messing around with.” He clicked to a different blog entry. “And besides, you even wrote about it yourself. Look at the main premise in this not-so-cleverly titled entry; _Happily Ever After…_ Notice that Miss Jennings was blackmailed into marrying someone who wanted to lead a privileged life.” John briefly glanced at his blog and nodded his head in agreement. Sherlock continued, “Now think, is there a possibility, no matter how slim, that one of your ancestors might have left you an inheritance of some sorts? Any chance that the photos of the pearls indicate that you might be coming into money?”

John pursed his lips and seemed to be thinking hard. “It seems unlikely. But apparently Harry and I _do_ have an uncle—well, he’s not really an uncle, he’s actually Mum’s cousin—what would that make him? My second cousin?” John shrugged and continued, “Anyway, I guess he apparently had a small fortune stashed away somewhere, but I can tell you right now, it’s not likely that I’m about to get some treasure dropped on my lap out of nowhere from this jerk.” John paused as if recalling other facts about said uncle. “I wasn’t close to him. In fact, I only met him a handful of times. He was stubborn and traditional… know what I mean? Liked things done the old fashion way. He had no kids of his own. And being the dick that he was, he broke all ties with my mother once he found out that my sister was a lesbian. Mum never heard from him again.” John paused before continuing, “But I actually saw the old fool once more after that. He showed up at one of my rugby game but was totally disgusted when he met my then girlfriend. Didn’t like her skin colour. Asshole.”

“How much money are we talking about?”

“I don’t really know. Mum mentioned that her cousin always made it sound as if it wasn’t money per se—but a treasure of sorts. Something passed on in an iron box or something.”

“Hmm… did--” the next question stayed where it was on Sherlock’s tongue. There just wasn’t enough evidence to tie anything back to Major Sholto and Sherlock couldn’t risk voicing his suspicion despite the hints hidden in Mary’s USB stick. There was no use bringing it up without admitting that it was a gut feeling—an intuition, if you will—without tangible proof. John would be hurt needlessly and truth be told, he wasn’t in the mood to hear John deify the man. He much preferred when the accolades were geared towards him.

“Well, we’ll have to gather some information about your uncle after we deal with Magnussen.” 

“Magnussen, _again?_ ”

“Yes. He must be silenced regarding this.” Sherlock held up the USB stick to John.

John looked up to the ceiling, biting his lip, “Oh yeah, _that._ I’d forgotten about it,” he said sarcastically.

“This contains her past but no information about her life as Mary Morstan. Were you able to talk to her? Get additional information?”

John looked down at his feet and pursed his lips before replying, “I don’t trust myself to even open my mouth around her. Even if everything you say is true—that she is cornered—I still can’t get past the fact that she shot you.”

“Mary cares about you. And she’s carrying your child.”

Sherlock observed pain shift John’s features even though he was trying hard to conceal it. 

But his John was resilient. He stood straight, and braced himself. “What did you find on the stick?”

“Short version—I was right.”

“Isn’t that always the short version?” John interrupted with a teasing tone despite his eyes being sad. 

“Most of the time, yes,” Sherlock replied and then took a deep breath before revealing what he had found out. “Mary was a double agent. That explains her work with both the CIA and the more shady aspects of her past. Overall, she has tremendously helped society to get rid of a terrorist group. Unfortunately, you cannot dismantle such a group without having to join them first. That’s how she made her enemies, and that’s why she had to assume a new identity.”

“But why wouldn’t she tell us any of this?”

 _Us._ The word warmed him inside. John still thought in terms of their partnership.

“She’s protecting someone.”

“She took advantage of my grief,” John said, crossing his arms over his chest. “As soon as she met you, she should’ve figured out that you were— _we were_ —her best bet to help protect whomever she’s protecting. Instead she goddamn shot you.”

Yes, Mary should’ve trusted them but this only indicated that there was something else missing, something Mary knew he’d figure out but didn’t want John to know. Sherlock recalled the way she’d said nothing, had not even defended herself in front of John, despite having done plenty of admiral work under cover. Again, his suspicions regarding Major Sholto rose to the surface. John was indeed attracted to dangerous people—wouldn’t that include his former commander? Was he somehow involved with the blackmailing? Was it something darker? Had John caused the death of the new recruits and didn’t recall? Wouldn’t that explain why all of his friends from that era hated him?

Sherlock whisked the questions aside with a sweep of his hands. Now was not the time to clog up his thought processes with possibly misleading tangents. Besides, there would be plenty of time to investigate these questions once Magnussen was taken care of. He was glad he’d made a copy of the flash drive to revisit these questions later. John could always dispose of one of the copies if it suited the situation.

In the meantime, Sherlock would keep quiet—and protect John too. 

Sherlock refocused on the matter at hand. “I have reason to believe that our Mary is in extreme danger and by proxy your child is too. As we speak, the gang she infiltrated, became _friends_ with, worked with, killed with, _and betrayed_ are looking for her. That’s why Magnussen must be stopped. If her new identity is leaked, she will be hunted down and killed.”

John clenched his left fist. “How do we do that?”

“You must first talk to Mary.”

John looked down at his feet, and remained silent. Why? Did he still think Mary was a danger to them?

“Do you need more details on what was on the flash drive?” Sherlock asked carefully.

John shook his head no. “I’m not sure if you understand,” started John. “I don’t want the details of what’s she’s done—I don’t need to bloody view it. And believe it or not, I would like to forgive her—give this marriage a chance, you know with a baby on the way…”

“But?”

“But she shot you.” John shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it. “Also, I want Mary to know that she can’t underestimate me or fool me. It comes down to... respect. Does she even realize I can shoot a bloody gun as well as she can? And that I don’t need protection from ‘whatever’? Hell, I survived not being able to talk my best friend—yes, you—from committing suicide right in front of my eyes—why did she think that the knowledge of her infiltration of a terrorist group or that ours was a forced marriage would ‘break me’? I don’t need to be molly coddled. And if she knows I crave danger—why not involve me right from the start?” 

These were all excellent points, proving to Sherlock once more that Mary was indeed protecting John. Sherlock promised himself he’d get to the bottom of this as soon as the Magnussen case was resolved tomorrow evening.

“We all make mistakes,” said Sherlock, hoping that John would hear what was left unsaid.

“Yeah, well.” A silent acknowledgement of things passed and forgiven was communicated through a single look between them.

John continued, “And—if your hypothesis is right—and she thinks she can help some bloody blackmailer make some money from me… I mean if there’s some sort of family inheritance out there, I don’t see why we shouldn’t all gain from it.” 

_Ha. Much better._ John’s sense of adventure was kicking in.

Sherlock taped his fingers on the table, thinking. “Without getting into details, you could let Mary know just that. Prepare in advance how you’ll phrase that you know everything that’s going on without having read the USB stick. It will be to our advantage if she knows you haven’t seen it. She’s smart. She’ll figure it out.”

“What should I say? ‘I’ve prepared these words—er, were you forced to marry me?’ or ‘Do you have a secret someone you’re protecting?’ So darling, you’re a double agent… ”

Sherlock knew exactly what John should say to Mary. “How about—”

John held out one finger in protest. “Shhh, let me think for a minute.”

 _Good. Even better._ Let John mentally rehearse his take on the situation. This meant John was ready to talk to his estranged wife. Excellent! (Who knew he’d excel at something like marriage counseling too?)

John cleared his throat. “How about something along these lines: ‘I am willing to forget the things that happened…” John stopped, waved his hand and started over. “The problems that happened in your past remain yours. And I will be _fortunate_ to be involved in…” Again, his voice trailed off and then he seemed to find the words he was looking for, “—the problems of your future are my… _privilege._ ”

Oh, priviledged, as in he was letting Mary know he wanted to benefit from the supposed treasure. It was Perfect. _Clever._ Something _he_ might have come up with himself.

If John Watson were his to touch—he would’ve placed his hand on the small of John’s back, leaned in, and whispered _brilliant_ in his ear.

Instead Sherlock ran his hand through his hair and said, “Very good. That’ll work.”

A slight tinge of pink coloured John’s cheek at the praise. If he only knew…

John sighed. “But it’s been weeks since we last talked, I’m still pissed as hell, and I’m not terribly good at expressing myself.”

“I know. Why do you think I was forced to bluff not knowing about how to turn off a bomb?”

“Oh God—please don’t tell me you have dynamite so I’m forced to talk to Mary!”

Sherlock waved a hand. “Nothing dramatic like that.This is what I have in mind instead: Tomorrow, Christmas day, come to my parent’s house for dinner. Bring Mary. And your gun.”

“Sorry, _what_?”

“You heard me,” Sherlock said. 

John gave an exaggerated shrug. “Mary and my _gun_? Is that all? How about a bottle of wine for the hosts? ‘Hello, Mrs Holmes, Mr Holmes, nice to meet you, my wife nearly killed your son, but here’s a nice Pinot Noir to serve with dinner’.”

“A Pinot Noir will do nicely. So you’ll come?”

John sighed long and loud. “Do your parents even know you’ve invited us?”

“Of course. They were delighted.”

“Sherlock, do you really think this is a good idea?”

“Do you have any other plans for tomorrow? I think it might do you both some good to get out of the house and act like a normal couple. And besides, I need your assistance.”

“I take it you don’t mean that you need help distributing Christmas gifts?”

“In a sense, yes. You’ll see.”

Finally, as if the talk about presents had reminded him, John turned and reached for the smaller silver gift bag on the table. “I might as well give this to you now, even though we’ll be together Christmas day after all.”

John opened the gift bag for him—conveniently proving the uselessness of hiding it in the first place—and took out a black velvet box, which John again proceeded to open for him. 

“I know what you’re going to say, you already have a watch… ”

Sherlock started to protest. John need not be so defensive about this. Sherlock _liked_ the idea of receiving a present from John, and as far as presents went, he thought this was quite nice because a watch actually _did_ something useful. 

John held up a hand and continued. “It’s just—I saw it, and I liked it. I don’t know—I found it looked elegant and unique, and immediately, it made me think of you. And I remembered how for two years I didn’t even have you around to buy a present for. Anyway, I thought, ‘What else am I going to get him?’”

Finally, John held out the watch to him, and Sherlock took it in his palm and observed the details closely. It was beautiful, really; the face was a gradient of deep purple to aubergine accentuated by silver subdials and black hands. The strap was made of soft black leather—just liked he preferred to wear on his wrist. Probably too expensive for John’s budget (he’d never spend that much money on himself) but Sherlock liked it immediately. He should probably say that outloud.

“I like it.”

“Oh good.” John took the watch back and turned it over, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Well, it came with free engraving and Christ, I don’t know—seems stupid now, but I thought ‘Why not?’. Something to remember who it’s from, you know?”

As if Sherlock would forget…

John brought the engraving close so he could read it. 

_Game Time_ , it said.

“As in ‘the game is always on’… ” explained John (quite unnecessarily), still a little embarrassed. 

Sherlock felt a pleasing pang of relief. No matter what, the game was never over.“Witty,” replied Sherlock to make John’s cheek colour again.

Sherlock undid his sleeve button and extended his arm towards John. John took the watch and clasped it on his wrist, his fingers resting on his pulse for a few seconds.

“Thank you, John,” said Sherlock, managing to keep his voice even. 

“My pleasure,” John replied before finally removing his hand from the thin skin of Sherlock’s wrist. “Is this for me?” John asked pointing to the boxed helmet on the side table.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

John took it out of the box and smiled. “Perfect, thanks. I was planning on getting one of those but I never got around to it after everything that happened.”

“You’ll wear it?”

“Definitely. Just three days ago I put twenty-two stitches in Mrs. Houlton’s head due to her flying over her handle bars because some jerk…… wait, how did you know I didn’t already have one?” he smiled. “Oh—you’ve followed me.”

“A few times—enough to know that you are in dire need of a helmet. I thought you were auditioning for an advert demonstrating idiotic ways to end one’s life.” 

John laughed. A full belly laugh. “Yeah, I’m not craving extreme adventures anymore. I’ve calmed down since then.”

“Wear the helmet.”

John was grinning. “I knew you cared about me.”

“Clearly.” He coughed. “You _have_ been useful to me on a few occasion and…” 

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence. John was looking at him. With _that_ look. The one where his face was tilted up towards him and his gaze fixed on him as if Sherlock was a secret source of rejuvenation or a rare natural phenomenon.

It confused him because there was no traceable pattern that made John look at people like that. And truth be told, he was the only person he’d seen John look at that way. (Now if only he could deduce what that look _meant…_

He had to do something to break the contact because the mixed messages always confused him.

Sherlock coughed and picked up his Rubik’s cube, solving it in quick, algorithmic patterns, until he knew John was looking at his hands in awe instead of his eyes.

John shifted foot to foot and licked his lips once. Sherlock sighed inwardly; John’s body language indicated that he wasn’t ready to leave. He would ask him to perhaps watch some telly—a Christmas show, undoubtedly. Yes, that was it. John liked Christmas, and wanted to extend the holiday feel a bit longer until he returned to Mary.

Sherlock mentally prepared himself to say no. Having John in 221B made everything lonelier afterwards. He would need to refuse and make up an excuse. _John, I’ve an important experiment on substances that can easily be dissolved in wine, sorry._

“Sherlock, would you mind if I hung out here a bit longer? Perhaps I could convince you to play something for me? It’s been ages… I’ve missed it.” 

And just like that Sherlock’s reasons for sending John away dissolved like arsenic in Merlot. He always needed to be vigilant in guarding his words… but music? He could let the notes be carried by the air molecules without ever being transcribed into anything recognizable to John. 

Sherlock turned and picked up his violin. John smiled, his eyes softening as he went to sit in his chair.

Sherlock closed his eyes and played, letting the music flow out of him in long, slow heartbeats. After a few pieces he stopped and looked at John, expecting him to raise his head and give him an abundance of accolades. Instead, John’s eyes remained closed, his head resting against his hand, his limbs abandoned to gravity, and his breathing slow and even.

“John,” Sherlock asked, “Are you sleeping?”

John opened his eyes and smiled lazily. “Hardly.” He stood. “Just savouring the moment. Thanks for the private concert. It was beautiful.”

Again, Sherlock ran his hand through his hair to keep from reaching for him.

“Alright, well I should go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Sherlock nodded as he watched John put his coat on and boots before turning one last time. “Goodnight Sherlock,” John said.

“Goodnight, John,” and added, “Send my love to Mary.” 

John shook his head and gave him a bewildered look as if he couldn’t believe Sherlock’s audacity with that last statement. “You’re insane, you know that,” he said with such open and genuine fondness that Sherlock felt a warmth creep up from his collarbone all the way to his cheeks.

In the shadows Sherlock stood behind the curtain of the window and watched John walk down the street. Loneliness engulfed him in quick drowning waves and Sherlock promised himself that tomorrow, Christmas day, he’d make sure to camouflage himself in his childhood home’s kitchen and stay away from John Watson (and away from mother’s curious eyes and Mycroft’s knowing ones.) 

 

~~~*****~~~

 

Twenty-four hours later, on Christmas night, Sherlock tried to incinerate the knowing look off of Mycroft’s face.

They’d just arrived into Mycroft’s office after his brother had quickly handled the Magnussen ‘incident’. Sherlock hardly had regrets about killing the vile reptile but it was unfortunate he’d have to listen to a lecture from Mycroft instead of blissfully getting high somewhere in London.

“You would have done better to keep that pistol in John Watson’s pocket, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded once. Best course of action was to agree with everything Mycroft said so he could be released and find the hit of cocaine he so desperately needed. However, he had not expected to blurt out the truth.

“Indeed, Mycroft, but when I thought of all the precaution I had taken to shield John over the years, it fairly drove me mad to think that John was in the power of the greatest bully in all of England.” 

Mycroft’s eyes widened in surprise at the admission, and then he regained his usual cool “Well, you’ve left me with a very ‘ _courte échelle’_ There’s only so much I can do to keep you out of prison.”

Sherlock kept quiet. He’d already said too much.

“I am confident that I will be able to convince the powers that be to send you on that unfortunate secret mission in Eastern Europe.”

“Yes, lovely.”

“It will happen fast, Sherlock. You’ll be gone by tomorrow evening.”

“Excellent. My schedule is wide open.”

“Stop it, Sherlock. I’m counting on you to survive this in your own way. I’m sure that I don’t need to explain to you how fragile the situation is.”

“Yes, I am well aware of the tension in Eastern Europe,” he relented. “I imagine you will procure me with a detailed mission plan and a small plane?”

“Correct. And you’ll need to leave tomorrow morning.” Mycroft added, “Should I get clearance to include the Watsons? I imagine you’ll want to say farewell to John Watson?”

Sherlock shrugged, and looked at Mycroft. His brother’s eyes were free of subtext and looked open and a bit sad. For a brief moment, it was as if Sherlock were transported back to their childhood, when Sherlock ran to Mycroft with every question, and sought his approval for everything. Just for an instant, he permitted his inner conflict and anguish to show and knew it would be enough for Mycroft to understand. 

 

~~~***~~~

 

Interestingly enough, a few days later, Sherlock was _again_ staring into his brother’s knowing eyes. Mycroft had delivered the ‘happy’ news that Moriarty was back and they had just dropped off the ‘Watsons’ (as Mycroft enjoyed emphasizing ) and were back in Mycroft’s office.

“You _did_ miss him, didn’t you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Was this your doing, Sherlock?”

“Noo-pe,” said Sherlock, dragging the syllables out.

A lengthy silence settled in the room as the two mighty brains combined their intellect to a common problem.

“So, _who_ did this then?”

“Moriarty.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock, he’s dead and buried.”

“Moriarty likes to cause trouble from a distance.”

“But even you, my dear brother, must admit that beyond the grave is a pretty far distance.”

“I know. _Clever._ ”

Mycroft shook his head in disbelief. “Oh good Lord, you spent two years exterminating Moriarty’s entire network and forgot to delete his little computer program?”

“It came in handy. It saved me.” Sherlock added, “Shouldn’t you be more grateful? I thought my loss would be ‘heartbreaking’…”

Mycroft sighed. “How much does John know about the IOU and the newspaper headlines from two years ago?”

“A grand sum of zero.”

“Then how did you explain what happened on that rooftop?”

“I didn’t.”

“Are you saying John Watson forgave you without knowing the full story?”

“Apparently.”

“How is that even possible!?”

“I’m charming?”

“Sherlock. Take this seriously,” Mycroft exclaimed, his exasperation creeping into his tone. “ I don’t want you to go on a killing spree to protect John Watson. It might be easier to simply tell him what’s going on…”

“Hmm—no. I’d rather go on a code breaking mission while he’s changing nappies.And besides, wasn’t that why you ordered that plane to turn around?”

“You’re forgetting the very important fact that the fearless ‘Mary’ is no longer safe.There might not be a little Watson to change in and out of nappies if you go running after key codes.”

“I need to stop Moriarty’s program in order to help her.”

“Then she must be sent away. With John, preferably.”

“Clearly.”

Mycroft tapped his fingers on his desk. “Perhaps she has just won a trip abroad? A cruise maybe?”

“Yes. Lucky them.”

“I’ll get working on that.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I won’t.” 

At that, Mycroft smiled and Sherlock felt reassured that his brother had caught the double meaning behind his words. 

 

~~~***~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing! (Oh, please be gentle with your comments even if you hate Mary!) 
> 
>  
> 
> As I mentioned before, all the plot ideas presented in this fanfiction are lifted from a mix and match of ACD canon stories. (I have listed them below in easy to read point form). They have been merged to form some sort of theory to explain Mary's (and John's) odd behaviours. The plot ideas also offer an element of the 'unexpected' that Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss have professed is coming up in series 4. 
> 
>  
> 
> 1) _The Adventures of the Solitary Cyclist._  
>  -forced marriage  
> -cycling to work.  
> -rich uncle  
> -shooting bully point blank
> 
>  
> 
> 2) _The Yellow Face:_  
>  -Wife hiding a secret child from previous relationship.  
> -Husband forgives her without even knowing what she is hiding.  
> -And husband gives wife eerily similar quote that John gave to Mary by the fireplace…  
>  _You are at liberty to preserve your secret, but you must promise me that there shall be no more nightly visits, no more doings which are kept from my knowledge. I am willing to forget those which are past if you will promise that there shall be no more in the future._
> 
>  
> 
> 3) _The Valley of Fear:_  
>  -Mary is a double agent. (aka Jack McMurdo and Birdy Edwards)  
> -Close friendship between trio of friends.  
> -Full story handed in a diary.  
> -Rough nugget important (note the rough nugget on Mary's engagement ring).
> 
>  
> 
> 4) _The Sussex Vampire:_  
>  -wife being confronted/accused and not attempting to defend herself. There was something in Mary's demeanour that called to mind that scene. I mean, if she was a psychopath, this would've been the time to pour on the charm and the 'fake' remorse. Instead she stood there impassive just like in that story because she didn't want her husband to know the truth because 'it would break him.'
> 
>  
> 
> 5) _The Sign of Four:_  
>  The pearls sent to John as a hint that he was owed some treasure from someone.  
> The hint that Major Sholto is somehow involved (remember that John is attracted to dangerous people and that Mary and Sherlock 'weren't the first--you know')


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks you to my friend Lariope for the beta, her kind words, and the hand-holding. Thanks also to Sherlockfan for alpha-reading and her gentle suggestions.

~~~***~~~

The minute John stepped out of his office and into the damp wind, he knew he was going to be drenched by the time he reached home. The big grey clouds hung low, just above his head, and John wondered how in the bloody hell the weather people had managed to screw up the forecast like that. Yep—definitely wouldn’t make it back to his flat dry. 

But John found he cared not one sweet fuck about being wet because, for the first time in months, he felt happy, light. Like the weight of becoming a widower had finally lifted. 

He inhaled a deep breath, closed his eyes, and took time to appreciate the feeling.

And just at that moment the unexpected rain began falling in big fat droplets around him. People on the sidewalk started running for cover as the rain picked up tempo, covering their heads with whatever they happened to be holding at the moment (a briefcase, a parcel and even an iPad).

John welcomed the rain and continued walking, his socks quickly getting wet and making a squishy sound inside his shoes. He cut through the deserted park to get to the Underground but then caught sight of a park bench half hidden under a large evergreen tree. He made his way there and sat, letting the warm summer rain rinse the rest of his sorrow away. 

It felt good to sit.To let go.To rest. He was so fucking exhausted…

During the past winter, following the deathof his wife and unborn child, he’d worked two jobs and written more than a dozen (unpublished) stories about cases Sherlock Holmes had solved prior to meeting him.

_Work is the best antidote to sorrow, John._

That’s what Sherlock had proclaimed in the weeks after John had become a widower.

Truth be told, Sherlock had needed that particular antidoteas much as John had.See, both had blamed themselves for the events leading to Mary’s death. He supposed neither had suspected that Mary would bloody well make plans of her own, that she wouldn’t trust them with her safety. And sure enough, Mary had gone off on her own at the last minute—on a different ship—the one that was supposed to be a damn decoy.

Her death was reported as an accidental drowning, but Christ, he and Sherlock knew the truth.

Of course, no one suspected the criminal circumstances surrounding Mary’s death. John could hardly blog about it, even though everything was still crystal clear in his mind.

John closed his eyes, tipped his head back against the bench and let the memories of the events that had led to Mary’s death flutter over him like a film across a screen. Perhaps, John conceded, he needed to view it one last time before safely putting it away.

Things had happened quickly after Sherlock’s ‘exile’ plane had made a quick and efficient U-turn up in the sky and deposited his best friend on the ground once more. Once briefed about the reappearance of Moriarty, Sherlock had taken control and had instructed them as to how to proceed. Sherlock had claimed that the first priority was to keep Mary safe—apparently her secrets were no longer hidden—and _then_ go after the mysterious, back-from-the-dead Moriarty.

They’d mapped out a plan in record speed to hide Mary (from what? John hadn’t been sure how Moriarty’s apparent return was connected to Mary’s work as a double agent. Something about Mary’s enemies hiring a consulting criminal to find her? There hadn’t been much time to ask questions at the time, but he’d managed to squeeze one in.)

“I thought Moriarty was dead?”

“Yes—shot himself in the mouth.”

“You sure? Er… remember Irene Adler…”

“Of course, he’s dead. See, that was him,” Sherlock had proceeded to shove an old newspaper under his nose. _Skeleton Mystery: Remains found in the wall of hospital_ the headline had said. And then Sherlock had spilled random bits of information at a great pace and in no particular sequence. To John,the bits of information had felt like individual beads from a broken necklace, scattering on the floor in a million directions, John had tried to grasp on to them but had the distinct feeling he’d restrung them in the wrong order.

_He’s not alive, John. It’s a program._

_It is possible for the victim to have done it._

_Such a clever trick._

_He felt he ‘owed’ me._

_Our actions trigger the program. Without human interaction._

_The IOU with the black wings, remember?_

_It’s the newspaper headlines that set it off, John._

_It’s the revenge that keeps on giving._

_We have to stop the program._

It all sounded like some sort of techno sci-fi thriller to John, but admittedly, he wasn’t the most literate computer guy out there. Sherlock had claimed there was no time to explain it all—they had to protect Mary first.

But… yeah, that hadn’t gone the way they’d hoped. 

At all.

John took small comfort in knowing that his baby girl had died painlessly in the cocoon of her mother’s womb—unafraid and loved. But if he were honest with himself, and there was no good reason not to be, John knew that the strangling heaviness he’d carried around wasn’t just guilt, but _blame._ Yeah, he’d blamed Mary for never fully trusting Sherlock—the one person who could outsmart and outwit any criminal out there—and endangering the life of his…

He let the thought go unfinished and let the images disappear from his mind. He took a deep breath, recalled the feeling of peace, and exhaled, feeling calm like a beach smoothed down by aggressive high tides.

When John opened his eyes, the park was still deserted, and he half-snorted to himself. There he was, apparently the lone crazy man in London, sitting alone in the pouring rain, not another soul around, pondering the meaning of healing and forgiveness.

When Sherlock appeared at his side—rain water spiralling down from his fringe, water spots darkening his Belstaff in a few places—and sat down next to him, John gave a small laugh.

_Well—there you have it, the other insane person in this city._

“Lovely day,” said Sherlock.

“Yes.”

Staring straight ahead, Sherlock asked, “Are you ready to move back into Baker Street?”

John realized that, yes, he finally should pack it all up again and move back in with his best friend. He wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t done so in the first place, but he’d somehow always felt that returning to Sherlock was some sort of reward—something he would allow himself once he felt like John Watson again. 

“Yes—yes, I am.”

“Good,” said Sherlock and then added, “The microwave really needs to be cleaned.”

“You great big wanker, I’ll teach you how.”

 

~~~***~~~

 

John had been back in 221B for months now, and he realized that since his return, he had this weird tendency to quietly watch Sherlock whenever his flatmate seemed to be in the same room as he—which admittedly was often—and today was no different. He’d returned home from the surgery unexpectedly (an old electrical panel in the basement of their building had caught fire, and they’d had to close the office for the rest of the day) and he’d been standing on the landing staring at Sherlock for at least five minutes.

John knew he should at least pretend not to be gaping at Sherlock like an idiot _again_ , but there was his best friend, sitting at the kitchen table carefully sipping _wine_ and taking notes, mid-morning. But he couldn’t help it—the image Sherlock presented was oddly mesmerizing. His genius flatmate had five bottles of red wine—two Merlots, and one Cabernet, the other two John couldn’t quite see—lined up in front of him with five large wine glasses accompanying them. 

Sherlock was apparently wine tasting. On a goddamn week day morning.

Internally, John laughed. He never knew what he was going to get when he walked in to his flat did he? Could be anything, really. Even after all this time—had it really been five years since he’d first moved into 221B?—John didn’t know what would greet him on the other side of the door. Sometimes it was a magnificent mess, and other times it was Sherlock being Sherlock—but even that was never the same from instance to instance. And frankly, he wouldn’t want it any other way.

John watched as Sherlock closed his eyes and savoured the wine, his lips glistening as if he had put on some kind of burgundy coloured lip gloss and his cheeks flushed pink. 

He looked… well, he looked _relaxed_ for lack of a better (safer) word.

John felt a pleasing pang of affection for his best friend. It was good to see Sherlock less frantic—more subdued and content—as if he too had finally gotten over the events of the past year. They were finally Moriarty-free, for good and Sherlock had been without a case for nine days (and five hours… but who was counting?) 

“Hello, John,” said Sherlock. His voice was deep and smooth as if his vocal chords were saturated with the most expensive vintage. (Probably were, John thought wryly.)

“Hi, there,” replied John, grateful that Sherlock wasn’t going to point out the fact that John had been staring at him for over five minutes. “Working on a case?” 

Sherlock ignored his question. “Would you like to taste some wine? I’m done with it. It would be a shame for it to go to waste.”

John looked at his watch. “It’s not even noon yet!”

“I don’t think time of day affects the taste, do you?” he replied evenly.

“No—no, it doesn’t—but most people don’t consume alcohol on Wednesday mornings unless they’re alcoholics.”

“Well, you’re neither an alcoholic, nor are you most people. Shall I pour you a glass of my favourite?”

John chuckled internally. He lived with this person who constantly surprised him. So why the hell not have a glass of wine on a weekday morning?

“Sure, thanks, but I’ll take it in the living room if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock gazed at him—his turn apparently—and again John realized they’d been doing a lot of that lately. It seems they were allowed these odd intimacies as long as they were not acknowledged or something like that. So John ignored him (and the unexplained buzzing in his lower gut) and placed his boots next to Sherlock’s on the small carpet by their door.

Then Sherlock stood quickly and gracefully swept up the Merlot, interlaced two wineglasses between his fingers, and in the blink of an eye, was in their living room, setting them on the small table next to John. He poured the wine and then sat across from John and started talking about wine as if John had asked an avalanche of questions on the matter and Sherlock was indulging him. The facts were fascinating and seemingly pouring out of some unlocked room located in the silky folds of his brilliant brain. ( _John, did you know that in ancient Greece, a dinner host would take the first sip of wine to assure the wine was not poisoned? The first chemical solution recognized as wine was during the Bronze Age. Wine chemists are called Enologists. ‘Pourriture noble’—noble rot—is a benign type of grape fungus that can actually sweeten some types of wine. Wine corks are made from the bark of Quercussuber—commonly known as the not-so-cleverly named‘cork oak tree’. Oenophobia is an intense fear of wine._ )

John was enjoying himself, the wine was good, and Sherlock was utterly captivating. Sherlock, John mused, was a brilliant stroryteller when he chose to be (and today he’d chosen.)

John felt happy, effervescent-like… _must be the thrill of doing something unusual._

 

~~~~***~~~

 

One hour had gone by, and Sherlock was now quiet, pad of his fingers together under his chin. John was feeling smooth and relaxed like a chameleon in the hot midday sun. They hadn’t quite finished the bottle but John had consumed enough that he felt just a tad mellow—like he was perfectly titrated to feel completely at ease and content without feeling too intoxicated. It was quite nice.

John wondered if Sherlock felt the same way. His flatmate didn’t drink very often—in fact perhaps the last time he’d seen his best friend consume alcohol was on John’s own stag night.

John looked at Sherlock again from behind the safety of his glass. Sherlock looked particularly unusual this morning. His lips were stained, and he hadone errant curl spiralling down on his forehead. Perhaps John _was_ tipsy because suddenly he had the urge to reach for said curl andeither push it away or pull it down to see if it would bounce back up. He randomly wondered if Sherlock’s hair felt as soft and bouncy as it looked. Could he run his hand through Sherlock’s hair without his fingers getting stuck once?

“What are you thinking about?” asked Sherlock. His eyes were closed.

John almost chuckled out loud. Jesus Christ, he’d let his mind wander off,and oddly enough,here he was thinking about his flatmates’s hair. “Do you really want to know?” 

“No, I’m just making small talk. Of course I want to know!”

“Wait a second, how come you can’t deduce it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “The fine vintage has slowed my thought processes down to your level?”

John chuckled. Sherlock’s eyes were still closed, but John suspected if he were to open them, there would be a mischievous twinkle there. They both knew Sherlock couldn’t actually read minds and that Sherlock _did_ admire John’s intellect (most of the time).

Without really thinking about it, John answered Sherlock’s question. “Okay, if you must know, I’m thinking about whether fingers can be run through that hair of yours without getting stuck.”

As soon as the words were out, John acknowledged that he might be more than a little tipsy afterall. Seriously, _no seriously,_ he could’ve made anything up, and this is what he decided to divulge to Sherlock? Yeah—that was a bit… odd. 

Sherlock’s eyes popped open. “You’re thinking about running your fingers through my hair?”

And, just like that,Sherlock sprung up from his chair like a young bobcat off a tree branch and landed at John’s feet, dropping his head onto John’s lap.

“Go ahead. Find out,” Sherlock said, as if John were running a scientific experiment, and it was imperative that he test the hypothesis immediately.

John stared down at Sherlock’s head, his heart beating fast, thinking he would’ve probably been less surprised to have a wild cat landing on him than to have Sherlock draped all over his lap like that. 

John didn’t dare move or talk, every single hair on his body standing on end. Sherlock’s head felt heavy, and he could feel the warmth radiating from it on his thighs. Sherlock was facing away from him, and his hair was spread out on his thighs like a small shaggy blanket.John looked at Sherlock’s unique profile closely. He had a high forehead and sharp cheekbones—almost alien like… but prettier, _much_ prettier. His eyes were closed and John could see the way his eyelashes curled up and the elegant shape of his earlobe partially hidden under a curl. And out of nowhere, John had a strange urge to take it between his lips for a taste.

_Where the hell did that come from?_

Why was he suddenly having these urges to touch Sherlock? Christ, it was bad enough he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off him…

But it shouldn’t have really come as a surprise that he’d want to seek some sort of physical contact with Sherlock. He was so grateful to the bloody genius for resetting his life—giving him purpose—and yeah, supplying him with just the right amount of adrenaline he seemed to unconsciously seek. Though, that being said, sitting like that with Sherlock… John couldn’t deny there was something else at play here. A sort of pull—like he felt somehow drawn to Sherlock by some invisible physical force that made him seek him out. They shared a strange bond and something else that he’d never bothered to label—what would be the point?—Sherlock didn’t care for these types of things and John wasn’t interested in making his relationship with Sherlock even more bizarre than it already was. Was it worth ruining a friendship over?

But all these musings were useless because John’s fingers had already found their way to the curls spread on his lap. They were soft and silky but sometimes his fingers _did_ get caught a bit. The only sound in the room was the sound of their breathing. Sherlock seemed in no hurry to move, even though he must know that enough time has elapsed for John to get the answer to his question. 

What did Sherlock think was happening here? Was he clueless? Or was he just intoxicated?

“Your turn,” John said. “What are you thinking about?” He swallowed somewhat nervously. Of course Sherlock wasn’t thinking about the meaning of their odd relationship and the boundaries of friendship. He was probably going to start a long list of deductions starting with why John’s socks were not a pair despite the fact they were the same colour. 

Really, John thought, he’d embarrassed himself enough as it was. He would be mortified in a few hours when the wine had worn off and the parameters of their friendship were firmly back in place again.

But Sherlock’s head remained on his lap, and John could feel his voice vibrating along his thigh when Sherlock replied, “I’m thinking about how many more millimeters of wine is needed for you to ‘not mind.”

John felt a certain heat crawl up his neck all the way up to his ears. 

“Not mind what?” John asked cautiously. 

“Touching me,” said Sherlock, his voice both very careful and soft at the same time. 

Time paused for amoment and then rewound itself to a distant memory. 

Oh God, Sherlock was referring to his weird stag night from a while ago, wasn’t he? They’d been pretty drunk. Yet it seemed they both remembered….

He’d touched Sherlock then. Accidentally, for sure… but still.

_Oh Christ._

_Shit._

Was Sherlock asking John to touch him… _that way?_ What else could he mean by ‘touching me’? And how did John feel about this?

Well, apparently he didn’t mind a whole heck of a lot since his hands were still buried in Sherlock’s hair, gently massaging his scalp as if this was totally normal between them.

But what if he was wrong? There’d been plenty of mixed messages between them in the past year. And this was Sherlock after all… 

John wished he could see Sherlock’s expression better to somehow gauge if he was way off track or not. “To clarify, you want me to touch—”

“Yes. I need more data. You know I can’t formulate a valid conclusion without it.”

Okay, right. Sherlock wanted more data. More _touching_ data.

“Why?” John asked, his heart beating widely in his chest.

Long seconds passed before Sherlock replied, “Because this is not the kind of data I have much experience interpreting. I need more… to be sure.”

_Jesus, Sherlock._

John felt a strange tightening in his throat at the thought of Sherlock being touched so rarely that he’d arranged this entire thing—the wine, the perfect calibration, Christ, probably the electrical panel malfunction in his building this morning!—to see if John would go there with him. 

John stopped warring with himself and bent down and kissed Sherlock on the shell of his ear, and once he had done that, he did it three more times along the soft arc of the ear until he reached the earlobe. He then ranhis tongue gently over it and felt Sherlock holding his breath.

“Sherlock, what’s happening here?” John whispered right in the ear his mouth had just left.

They still had not made eye contact since Sherlock had dropped his head on John’s lap and John leaned back against the back of his seat, dizzy and electrified.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock replied sincerely.

Over the years, John had heard Sherlock utter that bloody line too many times to count, but this was the first time that he’d heard it as an actual genuine question—devoid of arrogance or sarcasm. In fact, Sherlock’s tone was uncertain, _vulnerable_ and it was warming, and perhaps a bit sad, to think that Sherlock was unsure what it meant when someone sensually nibbled on your earlobe—especially after asking for more evidence. Well, this was a side of Sherlock he didn’t see very often.

“Yes, yes, of course it’s obvious,” John said quickly, to reassure Sherlock. “I meant it in the sense of what’s happening to us… like are we sure we want to do this, know what I mean?”

“No.”

“Aren’t you scared that crossing those boundaries might ruin our friendship?” explained John.

Sherlock sighed. “We’ve been crossing boundaries for ages. Do we need to end up in a different country for you to notice?”

_And he’s back._

John shook his head. _“Sherlock,”_ he said trying to sound stern, wanting to emphasize that this was a serious issue, that they needed to maybe talk about it, but instead he chuckled. He couldn’t help it…

And besides, it was true, they’d crossed the line so many times, they might as well be on a different continent by now, mused John. There’d been so many mixed messages, ‘accidental’ touches, picking off invisible lint from coat sleeves, lingering fingers as mobiles were handed over… and hell, that list didn’t even take into account waltzing lessons behind closed curtains!

Why had John ignored all that?

He supposed it was because Sherlock was like a country he didn’t know he’d been granted a visa to. 

Sherlock hadn’t moved at all and was still kneeling at John’s feet. He knew they should try to figure it out, but maybe that was just their way of communicating? And besides, didn’t actions speak louder than words?

John reached a hand and cupped Sherlock’s neck his thumb slowly stroking the skin there. His pulse was beating strongly under his palm.

 

Christ.

 

_Christ._

 

This was happening and there was no stopping it. It might be a stupid idea, Sherlock didn’t really do this sort of stuff--called it human error—but, by God, John didn’t want to stop.

John exhaled loudly. “Okay, let’s do this, then.”

“You make it sound like it’s a chore,” said Sherlock.

John shook his head. “No—not a chore, you idiot.”

John ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair one more time and then pushed his head off his lap gently. He slid down to the floor with Sherlock until they were kneeling face-to-face, gazing into each other’s eyes intently. 

John pushed Sherlock on their carpet and Sherlock grabbed him by the collar hard to bring him in for a kiss, the momentum pulling John on top of Sherlock not entirely gracefully.

They kissed hard and fast and a little desperately. Sherlock’s lips were warm and lush, firm yet impossibly yielding to the fierceness of the kiss, and it was easy for John to part them open and take his very first taste of Sherlock. With their tongues, they blended the flavours of the wine they had been drinking and shared the words they couldn’t say to each other.

_Sherlock, you make me feel alive_

_John, all this time… I waited_

_Nothing is better than being with you_

The kisses were sweet, fast—the kind that spoke of longing and of the excitement of first times. John could tell this was not something Sherlock had a great deal of experience with but it made the entire snogging thing unbearably endearing—special. It was indeed a heady feeling to be the one person to be privy to not only the beautiful workings of a genius’s mind but to his body as well. 

John found himself firmly nudged between Sherlock’s thighs, his full weight pressing against him.Sherlock smelled faintly of soap, of lime— _masculine_ —and John blurrily thought that it didn’t seem odd at all. Even the feel of Sherlock underneath him—muscular and hard—was good… more than good. And John continued to explore the differences. He learned the firmness of Sherlock’s hips, the strength of his thighs. They rolled half a turn until Sherlock was now half on top of John, and this time John learned the ridges of his vertebrae, and the firm curvature of his buttocks. _Sherlock, you feel so fucking good._ He pushed Sherlock back down on the floor and Sherlock breathed out a deep moan which propagated inside John like a wildfire. He ground against Sherlock harder, desperate, pleasure coiling in on itself deep under his belly, under his balls, creating the kind of static that needed the relief of pressure. He was so damn close. 

John thought it would be a good idea to slow the hell down—let Sherlock set the pace—but whenever John tried to pull back, to calm things down as it were, Sherlock would grow a little desperate and bolder, and the effect was like trying to douse a fire with kerosene.

He’d forgotten what it felt like to be so enthralled—to feel like a teen again—and it was by sheer will power that John managed to gently push him away.“Hold on a sec, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sat back on his heels, breathing hard. He looked stunning with his swollen lips and flushed cheeks, and it took everything for John to not grab him again and pull him back in his arms. 

Sherlock lifted his head and stared at him with an expression that was a blend of curiosity, arousal, and nervousness.

“Why are we stopping?” he asked.“Did I do—Is there something wrong?” he added, unsure.

“No,” John answered quickly, always feeling the need to reassure Sherlock. “It’s nothing, really.” 

John struggled to find the reasons why he’d stopped. Where this was leading was obvious, and yes, he should’ve inquired about protection and all the stuff one usually discussed with a new partner. But this was Sherlock, and he knew without a doubt that somewhere in a folder in 221B was a negative std panel for both of them. He also knew this was Sherlock’s first time... 

But what he didn’t know was if Sherlock had meant to go this far. Yes, he’d wanted to be touched—but had the alcohol affected just how much touching he was comfortable with? John needed to make sure Sherlock was making the decision with a clear mind. He couldn’t bear if Sherlock regretted this—or worse, if it wasn’t reciprocal.

“John?”

“I mean—er, I just felt I should ask… are you drunk?”

Sherlock dropped his head low and didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then he looked at John again with a small smile and a sparkle in his eyes.“Really? You stopped to verify my consent?” said Sherlock. “Handsome and chivalrous.”

 

John felt a warm blush creep up his neck and into his cheeks. He knew Sherlock was teasing him… but it was more the way in which Sherlock had said it—with such affection and tenderness—that had John so flustered. 

John pulled Sherlock to him and cradled him on his side, playing with his hair. Sherlock nestled close and buried his face in John’s shoulder. It was somehow easier to talk this way.

“It’s just—Christ… are you sure?”

“John, surely you’ve realized this was my plan?

“Yeah, I know,” John replied. “But this is pretty new for both of us. We don’t have to go any further. Maybe prepare ahead of time.”

Sherlock pulled himself up slightly. “We’re prepared! We’re both std free… but if you feel the need, I found three condoms in your room—expiry date Dec 2016. Also, this…”

And from seemingly out of nowhere, Sherlock placed a small glass jar in John’s hand. 

A familiar rush of amazement swept through John at Sherlock’s unexpected action. John sat up, took the jar and opened it with a soft pop. He laughed quietly to himself. Sherlock always seemed to bring a crazy element of the unexpected in any given situation they found themselves in, didn’t he?

He scooped some of the content out and brought it to his nose curiously. It was silky and smelled of ginger and oranges—clearly a lubricant of some sort. Had Sherlock made that…?

“Yes, I synthesized it myself. But surely you don’t want me to explain it to you _now?_ ” he said, incredulous.

“You’re incredible.”

“Hardly. It’s 90% water.”

“No, not that, you idiot… just— _everything._ ”

Sherlock stared at his own hands for a second. “There is something you should know,” he paused, and then finished as if he were admitting a grand secret.“I believe you are an idiot too.”

This is when it finally dawned on John that this whole thing—feelings and all—was quite reciprocal. John laughed softly, holding Sherlock by the back of the neck. “Yeah, two complete idiots…”

He reached for Sherlock and again they sank to the carpet, their bodies locked and intertwined. They resumed kissing, teeth and tongue and _I want you_ , their hands touching, reaching, moulding, as if they were trying to carve themselves into each other’s space. He could feel of Sherlock’s erection against him as his hips grinded against his in a rhythm older than time.

Blurrily, John thought that perhaps they should’ve moved this to a bed, somewhere more comfortable, but like a switchblade, the shift from friends to lover was happening—quick, sharp, and powerful.

Staring straight into Sherlock’s eyes, John ran his hands slowly down the trembling length of him, over tiny buttons, heaving chest, over to his trousers where he firmly cradled Sherlock’s erection in the palm of his hand.

 _I don’t mind, Sherlock._

John undid the button and reached inside his pants to circle Sherlock’s cock with his hand.

 _I don’t mind touching you at all._

Sherlock inhaled sharply and looked at him, mouth slightly open and eyes filled with unconditional trust and desire. _Sherlock, just look at you._ Without a doubt, he was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.

“Let me see all of you,” John said hoarsely, barely recognizing his own voice.

Quickly they removed their clothing and Sherlock pulled John up, his hand slick with the orangy substance. John had no idea how they made their way to the sofa, and only realized they’d made it there when Sherlock landed on him like a human tide.

What happened next was a blur… a sweet swirl of sensation and sweat, as their bodies moved in unison, sliding against each other, slick cock against slick cock, lips upon lips, all urgent blood and famished fingers. 

Somehow their arms crisscrossed and John’s hand took a firm hold of Sherlock’s hot, silky cock and began moving his hand down the length as if it was something he’d done all his life. Sherlock arched into the touch, catching his breath and stuttering _J-J-John_ over and over. He was hard and hot and John marvelled at the beautiful sight and the needy sounds that Sherlock made while thrusting into John’s hand. 

And when unexpectedly Sherlock wrapped _his_ fingers around him—his strokes long, and timid at the same time—all consciousness was surrounded to sensation. The world condensed to a delicious friction and John’s ears rang with the sound of rushing blood as he climaxed to the mesmerizing symphony of Sherlock Holmes becoming undone in his arms. 

 

~~~***~~~

 

After a quick shower and changing his clothes, John returned downstairs to see Sherlock. John entered through the living room where the clock read 2:18 and the afternoon sun splashed through the window, throwing dappled patterns on the living room carpet. John grinned at the fact that Sherlock had tidied up the entire flat while he’d been in the shower. The wine bottles were gone, the glasses were drying on the rack by the kitchen sink, and even the Erlenmeyer flasks which John had been nagging Sherlock to put away were out of sight. Christ, if that was what Sherlock post sex, they were going to have a lot more in the future. It was a win-win situation for him, really.

John shook his head in disbelief at the thought of what had happened between them. He starred at his chair and the living room carpet in wonderment.

 _Well there you go_ , Sherlock had caused another major reshuffling of his life. 

But what now?

Just how much would this new status change things between them, really? Not much. They’d already been in some sort of odd relationship for a while now, John shrugged, he supposed they would just carry on as ever. 

He grabbed the newspaper off the coffee table and flipped to the sports section he hadn’t finished earlier. He found his way to the sofa and sat, starring distractedly at the photo of Steven Gerard without reading the accompanying article. Truth was, it was damn hard to concentrate when all he could think about was his brand new lover and the fact that he would be out of the shower real soon. And sure, enough, just on cue, he heard Sherlock walking out of his bedroom, pausing in the kitchen and then entering the living room, eyes plastered on his phone. John felt a familiar jolt low in his gut at the sight of him and instinctively pulled up the newspaper ever so slightly to hide his face.

He’d always assumed the jolt was a consequence of the burst of surprise and danger his flatmate provided for him but now realized it was a mixture of both, wasn’t it? Norepinephrine and dopamine… danger and attraction.

He stared in undisguised awe at the brilliant man who had saved him so many times. Sherlock kept him right too, didn’t he? 

Before meeting Sherlock, John had felt useless, like an abandoned extension cord, and then one day, in a hospital lab, using a string of eerily accurate deductions, Sherlock had jolted him back to life. Next thing he knew he’d been constantly electrified in the presence of the man.

When Sherlock walked past the sofa, John impulsively grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him down hard. Sherlock stumbled onto the sofa next to him, and John shook his head in wonder and said, “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

Sherlock looked at John, wide eyed, and scared. “John, I—”

John cut him off with a kiss. As it lengthened, they both grew breathless, again feeling their unique bond strengthen between them. 

Jesus, it was then that John decided he _wasn’t_ going to pretend nothing had happened between them… not after spending years convincing himself that nothing was happening. 

This was what they were to each other, what they had always been. No more mixed messages, no more secrets.

John thought of all the things they hadn’t openly acknowledged: the things Mycroft had shared with him, and the things he’d figured out on his own.

At last John freed his mouth. It suddenly felt urgent that it should be out in the open. “ I know everything you did. I know about the Red Circle, your suicide attempt, and why Moriarty felt he ‘owed’ you, and I know about ‘her’too. It’s fine Sherlock, it’s always been fine. “But—” he paused, choosing his words carefully, “But you had to face _him_ alone.”

Finally Sherlock looked at him, and John added, “You don’t ever need to be alone again—do you understand?” John said, softly.

“I understand,” Sherlock nodded. “But you’re being a tad over dramatic.”

They were quiet for a few minutes, lost in their own thoughts. It was Sherlock who broke the silence, “I don’t know what happens next,” he said, waving a hand between them.

“You don’t know?” John said his hand affectionately weaving through Sherlock's dark locks. “Well, then, I’ll tell you. You continue to solve crimes. I continue to blog about it, and from time to time we’ll both forget our pants, okay?”

“Acceptable, I suppose.” Sherlock smiled and leaned into him and tucked his long legs on the sofa. John closed his eyes, feeling Sherlock’s steady heartbeat against his temple, the soft brush of his palm on his back. Then John held Sherlock tighter, and sighed with satisfaction over the final chapter of a story—a love story—which had begun many years before.

 

~~~***~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing!  
> As I mentioned before, the plot elements in this chapter were lifted from ACD canon.
> 
> 1) _The Valley of Fear._ As I mentioned in my A/N from chapter 3, I think Mary’s past is based on Birdy Edwards from that particular story. Birdy ‘accidently’ drowns despite the fact that he’d been warned by Holmes that his secret was no longer safe.
> 
> 2) _The Mazzarin Stone, The Problem of Thor Bridge, The Final problem and The Empty House_ : These four ACD stories (plus John’s Blog ) were used to weave my “rooftop” and my Moriarty theory. If you’re interested in the details, they can be found in my other fic “As a Matter of Fact”.
> 
> 3) I believe that Moriarty is dead and this is the newspaper article Sherlock shows John in chapter 4: 
> 
> Also, this little monologue by John (see below) is basically my speculations about Sherlock's past and S4. I had planned on writing down my ideas in the form of an essay, but didn't have time. I'll be posting it on my LJ and Tumblr shortly if you want to take a peek. :D
> 
> “ I know everything you did. I know about the Red Circle, your suicide attempt, and why Moriarty felt he ‘owed’ you, and I know about ‘her’too. It’s fine Sherlock, it’s always been fine. “But—” he paused, choosing his words carefully, “But you had to face _him_ alone.”


End file.
